Discovery
by To Thy High Requiem
Summary: After a blow to the head, Sherlock seems to have gotten temporary amnesia. What can he deduce about his own life? No slash. Multi-chapter. Reviews appreciated. Thanks!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Sherlock and John belong to the BBC. **

John looked worriedly from the clock on the wall to his watch, then to his friend's face, then back to the clock again. It's been approximately three hours since he and Sherlock had gone out and had gotten themselves into their pretty little mess.

The day had been pretty typical - Sherlock was his usual annoying self, insisting that they go with a shortcut on their way home back from the grocers. The night was getting nippy and the two had left their jackets back at 221B, charmed by the misleading orange glow of autumn's light. The trouble started when they rounded a corner only to come face to face with some ruddy thugs. The whole process went surprisingly similar to what one sees on the TV, a serrated knife, a few gruff words, the stench of alcohol, and vague threats before their wallets were whisked unceremoniously away from them.

Sherlock and his stubborn temper always got the better of him, and John knew that it would've been useless praying for the miracle that perhaps his best friend might shut up for once in such a situation.

"If you guys were going to mug someone, I'd wish you were a little less stupid and chose people who actually had money", he spat. John had started to roll his eyes at Sherlock's words when the larger of the two men suddenly stopped rifling through the contents of the wallet. Before John could utter a word the man had brought the blunt end of the large knife down harshly on Sherlock's head with a loud grunt. His nostrils flared as he then kicked Sherlock roughly behind the knee and Sherlock buckled, lurching forward until he was sprawled against the wall with a loud noise. The drunken vapors coming off of the thug spoke of a serious lack of self-control as the large man whacked with his large fist across the back of Sherlock's head once more. Sherlock went promptly limp and John had gasped in horror as he tried to go to his friend's aid.

The next few moments were a blur, but perhaps someone in passing had actually seen something because a police car had pulled up and suddenly there were strong hands and sirens and red and blue flashing across the walls. John didn't realize he was holding his breath as he watched one of the cops turn Sherlock over to assess his injuries after another had gone off giving chase to the thugs. There was a gash on Sherlock's head and his usual pale skin looked a few shades lighter. He must've hit the wall harder than he thought.

"Shit." The word escaped from John's breath like a hiss.

Now it has been a few hours later and John was sitting in a plastic chair in the hospital next to Sherlock. The injuries appeared minor but Sherlock's unconsciousness was disconcerting. The brain is a very complex organ, and who knows what kind of unforeseeable complications could arise from the blows he received?

John took a sip of the hot tea he had in a paper cup and leaned back, rubbing his eyes. _Any moment now, Sherlock_. He thought to himself. _Why the hell couldn't you just shut up for once! You and your stupid ego…always deluding yourself by thinking that you can be more than human. Why, as horrible as this sounds, you kind of deserve this…this…  
_  
Before John could finish his thoughts a movement caught his attention. Sherlock's eyelids flickered and he opened then, then immediately squinted them shut again, deciding that light was a bad idea.

"Hey," John said, tentatively. "How are you feeling?"

_Mmph._Was the only reply. Sherlock tried to sit up then, and instead he winced from the effort and threw an arm over his forehead, overcome by a throbbing pain. "W...water", he managed to croak.

"Here, Sherlock." John quickly poured a glass of water from the side table and handed it to Sherlock, who took a few sips before settling his head back on the pillow, his pale blue-green eyes a little less focused than usual.

Sherlock scanned the room with his eyes then he traced his own body with his gaze. He was covered in a standard issue hospital blanket. All his muscles seemed to be in functional order; he could move all his limbs. He took a deep breath – lungs are fine. The only thing amiss seemed to be his throbbing headache. Well, actually…Sherlock frowned. That's not the only thing.

Sherlock fixed his gaze on the man sitting on the chair next to him, keeping his face unreadable. He thought for a moment then decided to be blunt with it.

"Who…are you?"

John blinked. That was not a question that he had expected to hear and suddenly panic struck him.

"Sherlock? What do you mean? I'm...I'm John. _John_John." That seemed a little redundant but John had no better words to say.

Sherlock blinked again, then said nothing.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock sniffed. Now John was in full panic mode but he told himself to keep calm. Head injuries can often result in temporary amnesia. The key word was temporary.

"It's all right." John said in his most soothing tone. "You've…hit your head and you might be a little confused right now. It should clear itself up sooner or later. I'm…John…we…we're roommates." John cleared his throat. "I'm also your best friend."

Sherlock squinted his eyes a little bit out of his effort for concentration, but it only made his headache worse. "John." Sherlock liked the way the word just rolled off his tongue. Somehow the sensation does have a vaguely familiar feel to it. Satisfied for now and unwilling to expose too much more of himself, Sherlock closed his eyes in an effort to _think_.

Despite his injuries Sherlock remained true to his nature and demanded to be released from the hospital much earlier than was good for him. John had relented, seeing as he thought that perhaps familiar surroundings might help jog Sherlock's memory back a little earlier.

When they got back to the apartment, Sherlock had scanned the room with all his usual flair and deduced in minute detail quite a few things about his previous life. Knife on the mantelpiece – practical, always prepared. Bullet holes in the wall – his landlady must _really_love him. Chemistry set – he worked at home. Toes in the cookie jar – not a conventional scientist, then. Unlike his usual self, however, he didn't rattle off his deductions to the world at large but had kept his mouth shut for the most part. Somehow silence also suited him, and he recalled a vague sense of silence as protection - as comfort.

But that was a long time ago, it had settled over him because it was preferable to the alternative...whatever alternative it was. A sudden flash of memory flitted past his brain - a playground, a young child...taunting. "Smarty pants...leave him alone, he doesn't need friends what with his massive brain in the way..."

"Sherlock."

John's voice broke Sherlock's reverie and he noted with a slight annoyance that he had been too lost in thought to notice that John had been calling him. He turned around and winced, his headache was coming back. Double annoyance - pain didn't usually bother him, did it?

"Yes?" His voice was gruff, so he cleared it.

"Ah...lunch? What would you like for lunch, Sherlock?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Of course you're not..." muttered John. "Nevertheless, you need food, Sherlock. I'll make some soup."

_Hmm_. Sherlock didn't say anything else; instead he proceeded to explore the rest of the flat. The room was filled with a sort of...warmth, there were clear signs that the place was well lived in. A vintage violin lay on an armchair and he picked it up, examining the wood and make. German…circa 1880. It's been meticulously taken care of despite the general haphazard condition that makes up the desk tops and shelves.

Sherlock closed his eyes and placed the violin under his chin, taking the bow in his other hand. The music came easily, and he realized that the tune was one of his own...he had composed this song. The melody was plaintive and the ending...the ending resigned. No, thought Sherlock with a wry twist, it was a bit stronger than that...closer to…lamenting. He took a sharp breath and placed the violin down again.

John bustled out of the kitchen with some steaming soup and placed it on the desk behind Sherlock. Despite what he had said earlier, Sherlock felt his stomach grumble in anticipation and he sat down to his meal.

John was interesting to observe. He was Sherlock's friend - yet his presence was a relatively recent development. He hadn't known him for long then, maybe only a year or a bit more. Despite that there seems to be a closeness that time does not really explain. John was a doctor…recently returned from service in Afghanistan. There's a steadfast loyalty to the man and Sherlock wondered what he could've possibly done to warrant such trust from him. Suddenly Sherlock felt that this _not-knowing _was unacceptable. As fascinating as it was to observe his own life through his artifacts around the flat, his flatmate was something else altogether. He was actually confused – this man really seemed to worry for him. Why? Why would anyone _worry_ over him?

After the quick meal, Sherlock had retreated to his bedroom but not without a little worried glance from John. Inside, Sherlock found there was a chemistry chart on the wall, suits in the closet (expensive suits, those) and a Beosound system on the wall. The bed was neatly made, the rest of the room Spartan and clean. Although he'd hate to admit it, his headache was making the bed look very enticing, and he rested on it with his eyes closed for a bit.


	2. Chapter 2 - Mycroft?

**A/N - First of all, thanks to all those who have favourited or followed my story. I've mostly been reading stories on this site but I thought it was high time for me to contribute something back so I wrote this one out. Forgive me for any errors or typos on my part. It's a bit short but hope you enjoy it anyway! **

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John bustled around the kitchen a bit with the washing up, then sat down with a huff on his armchair and ran a hand down his face. The flat was quiet…and it was eerie. Sherlock was physically fine, but when the thing that's off is Sherlock's mind, he's got to admit that it's gotten him a little stumped as to how to proceed.

Should he warn Sherlock about the ears in the fridge? Should he label anything in the kitchen? Or would that just get a sneer from the detective, as certainly his power of observation has not been diminished? Then John smiled a little bit as an evil thought crossed his mind. He could finally get Sherlock to check off a few things on John's list for him. Namely, have three proper meals a day and sleep a reasonable number of hours for a human being. And maybe make a couple of mugs of tea while he's at it. John's smile grew wider before he nodded off on his armchair, the fatigue from all the craziness finally wearing him off a little.

About an hour later Sherlock emerged from his room and sat himself in his chair, hand plucking away at the violin but not really playing any music. John cracked open an eye and saw Sherlock, hair damp and in fresh pajamas.

"Sherlock?" John asked by way of greeting. "Right…what time is it? It's just past 10pm…hmm, care for a midnight snack?"

Sherlock shot a disapproving glare before he said, "It's hardly midnight, John."

"Whatever, Sherlock, you know what I mean. How about some pastry? Mrs. Hudson brought up a fresh batch while we were out this morning…"

Sherlock sniffed and didn't say anything, which almost caused John's mouth to hang open with idiotic surprise, until he realized that this amnesia really is presenting him with a bigger opportunity that he'd realize. "I'll take that as a yes, then."

John soon learned that Sherlock was secretly partial to tarts and remembered that time in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen right after she had been attacked by the CIA killers when Sherlock had swept into the flat and then dove into her fridge, something that John had never witnessed in their own flat. He made a mental note and then settled back into his chair, eyes roving over Sherlock with silent assessment.

"Did you know that -"

"John!" Sherlock interrupted by suddenly leaping up from his seat and went over to the bookshelf, where he deftly climbed up and removed from the top left corner a tiny object. "A camera! Did you know that we were being observed?"

"Oh right. It's Saturday. Usually we do the camera sweep on the second Sunday of the month."

Sherlock merely glanced at John with a furrow between his eyes by means of a question.

"Uh, the British Government likes to keep tabs on you."

Sherlock seemed to process this for a minute before he settled back into his seat. "What…with poorly hidden miniature cameras? Why?"

Sherlock's mind was whirling. It didn't really make sense. So a man plants a camera in his living room, and his flat mate is not surprised. This man is known, and not a threat. British Government – but this can't be for official business. So Sherlock has a relative or close tie in a high position. Since his "accident" this morning he has not had another call, so not an intimate relationship, yet there is the camera. It's not placed in a way that is truly meant to be hidden - because certainly any idiot would've noticed that a volume of the collection had been misplaced on the shelf - it's more of a message, then. A message…of what?

Sherlock was truly disturbed at this point. Not only did John Watson seem to care for him, but now there seemed to be some mysterious relative – most likely brother – who was also (he almost winced) _concerned _about his general well-being. From a distance, and on a constant basis, apparently. The thought made Sherlock sink deeper into his chair.


	3. Chapter 3 - Lestrade

**A/N: Again, thanks for the follows. There should be about one more chapter to this, which I hope to get out soon, but if you have any suggestions for anything else, let me know. Enjoy~**

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**Chapter 3 – Lestrade**

The next morning was a Monday but John had taken the day off. Sarah had been very understanding – in fact she was surprised that this hadn't happened sooner. Anyone who had any time with Sherlock would've expected him to be either maimed or be severely compromised by now. That is, if his way of crossing the street or his explosive chemical experiments were anything to go by.

John had gotten up early and made breakfast. He was almost a little giddy doing it, not quite sure if he went overboard. There were eggs – poached, fried or boiled. There was toast, with three different kinds of spreads. Not to mention fresh orange juice, apple juice, tea, and there was even steamed milk. When everything was laid out on the table, John shouted for his flat mate.

"Sherlock!" No answer. A few more shouts and still, nothing. "Sherlock?"

John walked up to Sherlock's door and rapped lightly. He opened the door a crack, and then poked his head all the way inside his room. "What the hell…" There was no one in the room. Great.

_Where are you? – JW_

_Sherlock. – JW_

**_John, I couldn't remember where I put my wallet, so I took yours. _**

_WHERE are you? Answer me, dammit! – JW _

**_Out of cigarettes, John. _**

_Sherlock – you don't smoke. At least, not anymore. – JW_

**_Why do you end each of your texts with your initials when I clearly know who is texting me?_**

John paused. Why _does _he do it? It was Sherlock's habit, surely, that he had inadvertently picked up.

_Stop trying to distract me. Sherlock, come back to the flat, I need my wallet! – JW_

As if on cue, there was a bang downstairs and then a flurry of coat before Sherlock was back in the flat, looking non-plussed.

"John, I got a text."

"I know, Sherlock. We were having a conversation."

"Not from you! There's a…Lestrade, who's coming here with a case file for me. A case, John. What case?"

"Sherlock, we need to talk."

John spent a total of fifteen minutes explaining to Sherlock that he's in no shape to go chasing after criminals after some murder investigation or whatnot but when Sherlock heard what his job description consisted of, his eyes only opened a little wider with the kind of look that children get when the beginnings of a hare-brained scheme first takes form in the head. John feared the worst.

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?" John was almost desperate now; he could imagine this getting out of hand very fast. Much to his chagrin, however, he heard a knocking downstairs and then Mrs. Hudson opening the door. The sound of footsteps charged up the stairs.

"Sherlock, you didn't answer my texts – oh hi, John." Lestrade threw a glance at John's direction, barely pausing to take a breath. "It's a triple homicide, no witnesses so far, only – "

"Greg, we need to talk." John practically man-handled the Detective Inspector off into the kitchen, not waiting for him to finish his sentence. "Listen – could you lay off on the cases for a little while? Sherlock's not really…all there…right now." Greg only lifted his eyebrow at this. "Ok, I guess him not being all there is not really news. What I mean is…"

John didn't get to finish as he heard a second bang and more footsteps coming up the stairs, and before he could get back into the living room he saw that Donovan and Anderson had accompanied Lestrade to Baker Street.

"Definitely not good." John uttered under his breath.

"…stop it, smart-arse." Sally's words were what John caught as he came bounding back into the sitting room. Sherlock seemed amused enough to brighten a little at this, surprisingly. He was only a few inches away from her body and it seemed like he had said something to set her off just prior but John had no idea what it might've been.

At his smile, Sally leaned closer, "Psychopath!"

Sherlock's smile grew wider.

"Freak!"

Sherlock chuckled and then turned away to perch on the edge of his chair, his hands up in a prayer position under his chin. He turned to look at Lestrade with a slightly shocked expression.

"So this is your lot? The greasy-haired one that's dimmer than an emergency exit and Miss Jumping-to-Conclusions gold medalist? No wonder you come to me for help."

"Sherlock!" cried in Greg and John in unison. They groaned. Nope. No hope for a fresh start there.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Rose

**A/N: Thanks to all for the new follows and reviews. I must make a comment about the last chapter though, because one of my favorite bits (the part where Sherlock's smile gets bigger and bigger as he gets insulted) is a reference to the incident from ACD's "The Speckled Band" where Dr. Roylott calls Holmes a busybody. **

**Anyway, this chapter is also inspired by a scene from the ACD originals. It's the last chapter, sadly. Thanks for reading!**

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**Chapter 4 – The Rose**

Despite protests, John had ultimately relented to letting Sherlock visit crime scenes with Lestrade. To be fair, John had only done so on the off-chance that seeing crime scenes would help Sherlock jog his memory back a little quicker.

"Sherlock. Sher –"

John stopped to see Sherlock with his hands on his head, his posture almost crouching as if in pain. He was there beside the detective in a flash.

"Is it bad?" John whispered under his breath. He was referring to the inevitable headaches that often accompanied head injuries. Unfortunately Sherlock seemed to be having a hard time with them.

Sherlock shook his head a little, sending his curls flopping. He took a deep breath and then turned away, throwing a casual "I'm fine" behind him as he went.

John sighed an exasperated sigh and hurried after him, barely in time to catch Sherlock's elbow as he swayed. Sherlock gave him a look that was not quite annoyed yet not quite grateful.

For the rest of the case Sherlock had flitted around and made his observations as if nothing was wrong (except occasionally when John would find him just a shade paler than he normally appeared). Much to John's relief, however, small bits and pieces of Sherlock's memory seemed to be returning.

Three days later Sherlock bounded up the steps of Baker Street at two in the morning and woke John up, completely oblivious to the time. "John – John! I think I have the answer. It's in the rooms at Covent Garden."

"Sherlock, it's bloody two o'clock in the morning. Go to sleep." John grumbled. He was sprawled on the armchair, a book open on his lap where it had dropped after he had drifted to sleep. Yawning, he got up and went upstairs, satisfied that Sherlock was home and annoyed at having been awoken so early in the morning.

Sherlock, wide-eyed and puffing with energy, was not able to settle down so he played with his phone for a bit and then paced up and down the living room until finally – finally, the first rays of dawn streamed through the windows.

An hour after that John, Sherlock and Lestrade met in the rooms of Covent Garden, the hotel where the murderer had escaped to hide. Sherlock had explained along the way how he had figured it all out while John sipped at his coffee in the car, trying not to spill anything onto Lestrade's leather seats.

The arrest was not without a little scuffle but it was nothing when the suspect was faced with three very able bodied fighters armed with guns. Lestrade called Donovan to take custody and Anderson came to collect evidence from the room. Soon the area was taped off and by afternoon most of the people had started to leave.

John found Sherlock standing by a window in the lobby with a little more than half of his face in profile and a single red rose in hand. His eyes had a languid look about them and his lips were curled upwards – not quite a smile but not quite a smirk. John wondered if Sherlock noticed his approach as the detective started muttering to himself.

"Hmmm. A rose. Why _do _people fuss over it so much, this flower? I suppose it does smell good." He took a sniff then blinked a few times. It's as if he'd never smelled a flower in his life. "John might like it. It smells…fresh. Like summer. I suppose if all the best perfume makers can't make up something to beat the rose, then there is hope in the world. And maybe at least one mystery that is not meant to be solved."

John cleared his throat, not sure if he should be worried or embarrassed to see Sherlock being out of character. It seemed just a bit – sentimental. John was not exactly uncomfortable, but it was as if he had taken advantage of his friend and glimpsed more of the man than he would normally be allowed to see.

"John, you could consider roses the next time you go out with Sarah."

"Yeah, the last thing I expect is to be taking dating advice from Sherl – wait, you remember Sarah?"

"Obviously. I also remember the hideous orange jumper that she got you for your last birthday and the fact that you made all my white shirts look like cooked salmon."

John was about to mutter something about Sherlock doing his own laundry for once but a sudden realization struck him: Sherlock's memory seemed to have recovered just about completely. Rather than stating the "obvious" as he's sure would be Sherlock's response, John grinned. Then, a strong curiosity got a hold of him though, and he had to ask. "Sherlock, since when did _you_ like roses?"

Sherlock tilted his head back just a fraction of an inch and the bridge between Sherlock's eyes crinkled slightly as he looked at John, mildly confused. "What…does it matter?"

"I never thought you would notice something like a flower."

"It's like what I said about the stars, John."

"What'd you say about the stars?"

"Just because I don't know much about the stars doesn't mean I can't appreciate their beauty." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Come on, John. I just remembered that I had an experiment in the pressure cooker."

Afterwards, John had never mentioned the conversation again but on many later occasions Sherlock would find next to his black globe on the mantelpiece a small glass vase that's sometimes filled with buttercups and daisies, and other times, roses.

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**The reference here in this chapter was to the rose from the scene in "The Naval Treaty", one of my favorites, but I do not do it justice.**

**So guys, that's the end! It was my first attempt at writing and I'm very grateful for all the kind responses. **


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